Elegy
by Midnight Strike
Summary: I was once Cousland and then a Grey Warden. I have known all sorts of betrayal. Now my body becomes a pyre, fuel for my vengeance. This is a metamorphosis, of sorts.
1. Pup

**Elegy**

_Summary:_ I was once Cousland and then a Grey Warden. I have known all sorts of betrayal. Now my body becomes a pyre, fuel for my vengeance. This is a metamorphosis, of sorts.

_A/N_: A series of short glimpses into fem!Cousland's journey. There are end game spoilers.

--

I. Pup

I used to be a simple girl. Or as simple as the daughter of a teyrn could be, with a dagger in my hand and a mabari at my side. I knew simple things: the hallways of the Highever castle, which servants were kind, which guards looked the other way when a young girl and a dog slipped out a side door. Father has always treated me like another son, efforts that Mother tried to thwart at each opportunity. Although Mother was a fighter herself, adept with bow and arrow, but she would hold my hand and brush her fingers over my calluses, sighing.

I was a simple girl who knew simple things, like the balance of a blade in my hands, the smell of supple armor, and how to tread lightly without a sound. My legs were strong from scaling trees, and my arms muscled from throwing apples at an unlucky passing knight. The other nobles had names for me – headstrong, wild, spoiled. Father's advisors said – spirited, bright, and knew that I was doted upon by the entire household.

I remembered the smell of the spring after winter's thaw, the feel of Rabbit's fur under my fingers as he led me chasing after his namesake in the underbrush. I was taught Ferelden history, the Chant of Light, of herbs and poultices, poisons and traps. _A proper warrior upbringing_, Fergus would say proudly, _even my little sister can stand tall against the Blight._ Fergus was the one with all of the dread responsibility, the boring tomes of household accounts and figures of the harvest collected this autumn. He was responsible for riding with father to the banns and the villages, or on trips to Denerim for councils with the king.

I supposed there were worst things to be than the daughter of a teyrn, even with Fergus' wife always reminding me of how a lady should behave, that I should be taught the proper ways of nobility. How to hold my dress in a certain way, how to curtsey or wear those ridiculous shoes that were more like torture contraptions designed to cripple a foot. She would wrinkle her nose at me whenever she saw me after the afternoon's sparring session, disgust evident on her face that I smelled like Rabbit and dirt fermenting in the sun.

She would have hated for the others to see her like how she fell in her final moments: dress rumpled, skirt stained, and hair tousled in wild ringlets. Oren was tossed aside like a doll, a broken vessel of what he used to be - tagging after Fergus eagerly, the world so new to one so young.

The training that Oriana protested against amounted to something because I slashed and parried and danced the intricate steps of battle, the repetition that resonated in muscle and sinew, stretched and taut. And she was dead and I was not. It was a bitter realization.

They were all dead. Servants both kind and harsh. The guards who would laugh as I swung from the trees, the branches carrying me nimbly away from the knight who shook an apple towards me, disapproving of my antics. Ser Gilmore's face as he spoke of his death, laying his life on the sharp edge of duty. I would remember all of this.

But then through the fire and the screams, the castle stones watching a slaughter, the soil drowning with the blood of those loyal or once loyal to Highever... Father was at the larder door and I was not a rogue fighter and Mother not a warrior archer. I was seventeen and young and I left what remained of my family there to die while my ears rang with the terrible song of vengeance.


	2. Mongrel

II. Mongrel

Ostagar's stench was of darkspawn blood and burnt human flesh. It settled into my bedroll and tent, made the enclosure stifling. I slept under the stars with Rabbit curled against my back, radiating warmth. A king was lost at Ostagar - a king, all the Grey Wardens in Ferelden save two, and countless soldiers who believed a Blight was coming. The Tower of Ishal burned above the ogre that nearly crippled the warden Alistair and who crushed the mage that remained nameless to me. But there was no promised charge, no flanking drive that would raise us to victory.

The song hung in the air. A song of treachery, high and keening, not unlike the one sung by Howe's assassins. I heard the tune intertwine with the dark forms of the darkspawn in my mind, the music shaping them into grotesque creatures, even more nightmarish than their true forms. They were shadows with claws, shadows that could take hold of you, but who had no flesh. They could not feel the dagger's punishment or the force of a fist. A wall of darkspawn and everyone around us, dying…

I woke up gasping, choking on what remained of the dream. There was darkness, darkness and eyes and wings that rose above us, covering the sky. The warden Alistair watched me across the fire, the shadows playing across his soft features, made them hard and alien. I was afraid of him, for a brief moment.

"Bad dreams?"

--

An apostate from the Wilds. A failed templar. A Chantry sister who saw a vision descend from the sky. A Qunari released from his cage. We were scattered about the camp, human habit easily ensuring that we took our familiar places There were choices to be made and a leader to make them. I was untrained and ill-prepared, but the smart mouthed junior warden was replaced by a sullen child. He could be found beside the fire each night, staring at the rippling flames like it contained a portal to the past, when the Grey Wardens were still whole, when Duncan was still alive. Fergus would not even take him as a fledgling recruit. I only took charge for Fergus, for Father and Mother, knowing that I would not disappoint them, that they did not die only for their daughter and sister to shame the Cousland name.

The taint bubbled under my skin. I felt the archdemon's call, the lust for destruction. I wanted to carve it out of me, bleed the taint into the beaten ground. My nights were violence: in the Fade, I watched Morrigan's face bloom against Alistair's shield, my hand guiding the graceful arc and contact. I crushed the warden's wrist with my heel, for the thrill of the shifting bones, snapping twigs. I tore out Leliana's pale throat with my nails, the warm rush of it as I echoed a song that only she understood. The Qunari was much more difficult – I drowned him, pushed his head under the water, watched his great body thrash and then still.

I buried Rabbit. Father. Mother. Fergus. I buried them all in the Fade. Howe killed them over and over and I watched. I laughed. I wept. I told no one I woke and relived their deaths each night. I was once Cousland and I was now Grey Warden. I was traitor and king killer and one day I will add another title: Executioner. The archdemon's song sang in my veins: _rise and follow, destroy. _


	3. Cur

III. Cur

Denerim was a filthy city. The streets were crowded with barrels and the market stuffed with cages and crates. There were pigs and ducks, chickens penned but making all sorts of racket. Leliana was immediately drawn to shiny baubles, while Sten lingered at a stall displaying blades. Alistair was distracted by a display of candied fruits and ripe cheeses. They had names now, these companions of mine - names and stories, origins and pasts. It was a strange feeling; the knowledge I carry of these people not bound to me by blood, but by time passing, trickled through fingers like the cold waters of a stream.

It was easy to slip away into a store perfumed by incense and in the background, the occasional crisp strike of a bell. A shop of Orlesian fancies: promise of silken scarves, jeweled earrings and heavy bracelets. I was led to the back room, separated from the front of the shop by translucent fabric. The proprietor led me to a stool, made me sit while she pulled little bottles out of an ornately carved drawer and arranged her tools.

I closed eyes and breathed in sharply as the cloth touched my face. The hands were expert and gentle. The sensation was prickling heat, growing as she worked. Tattoos were a sign of heathens among the nobility, only those who worshipped false gods, the elves and the dwarves. Grey Wardens were stripped of titles and names and all I had were memories of a past life, memories that I wanted etched on me in remembrance, my scars and my taint.

I touched my face awkwardly when it was done, and left the shop to meet my fellow wanderers. Leliana was the one who gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Sten said nothing. Alistair had questions in his eyes, but did not voice them. He spread the healing balm on the wounds, wincing when his fingers caught on an edge even when I did not flinch.

The scars healed in slightly raised ridges, the red edges shrinking as the days went by, until I forgot about the tattoo unless I saw my reflection in a stream or a found mirror. I grew accustomed to the view, eventually, like I became used to the long days of travel, the ache in my calves. I grew accustomed to my companions, who didn't know what ends for them I dreamed. Leliana even came close enough to brush her fingers through my hair, to loosen the tangles found there. Alistair told me of what family he found in the wardens, what life he used to lead in a castle not unlike my old home, and I thought him less silly and perhaps braver than the first impression. Morrigan I even respected, admired the inner strength it took to battle the demons of the Fade, as she breathed lightning and fire into the gathering horde.

We fought together, slept alongside each other - safe with the knowledge that someone was keeping watch. Sometimes we even laughed together in spite of all that we saw…Morrigan and Alistair's barbed jibes, Sten valiantly ignoring Leliana's soft teasing. The days grew shorter as summer drew her last breath, and autumn came shedding leaves in his wake. We gained a healer who left behind a broken tower, an assassin on an unfinished errand, a golem without memory. We carved a path throughout Ferelden, while Leliana taught me her bard's craft and Zevran guided my steps in his art.

I destroyed the archdemon's children, but heard his dark call each night. Death became another one of my companions, I carried him with me, and I wore his mark on my face.


	4. Runt

IV. Runt

The petals were still soft, the edges slightly curling. _This made me think of you. _I rolled it over my fingers. _You've had none of the good experiences of being a Grey Warden. Not a word of thanks or congratulations. _It was a time of many firsts: a first gift, the first thanks, the first time no words came to mind in response of wit or persuasion. I didn't know what to think of him. At times he was the bumbling clown, the butt of jokes. Sometimes I saw the chantry in him, the discipline they whipped into their young charges, in the way his eyes narrowed and his shoulders straightened when he disapproved. There were even moments when I wanted to strike him down with his own sword, to knock some sense into his thick skull.

I knew he watched me if I stumbled in the forest over loose rocks, hand steadying me at my elbow, straightened me before my body even knew it was falling. He was there when I was bent over, gasping, sword meeting a Hurlock's axe aimed for my back. He bandaged my wounds, clumsy and eager to please, half man and half child. He watched me and I should tell him to avert his eyes, that we were Grey Wardens and we shouldn't _fraternize_...

But secretly, I didn't mind.

--

In the weak light of morning, another darkspawn camp. I sang for them the melodies Leliana taught me, until I could make my own tune – wind for their feet and shields to ward them. I sang golden threads of valour, silver chords of courage. I wrapped our enemies in steel, a captivating song, or dazzled in a whirlwind, all distraction and illusion.

I spun around the templar as he repaired the tattered Veil, ready to drive the force of my body into the chest of the emissary. I stood back to back with him, and I knew his counters, how to advance and when to retreat. His presence was a solid comfort, a reassurance that I hesitated to admit. At the end of a difficult kill, when we were both covered with pieces of gore and a reminder that it could be the last time we would fight like this, together, and some sort of worry would bubble its way upwards in my chest. This unbearable thought, threads binding me to emotions I didn't dare voice - to lose the only other warden.

"Close one." He grinned, and I felt that thread tighten, knot, take hold.

--

The Blight took from us and I found what I could give back to them. What impossible task they asked of me, the wistful wonders of what used to be or a hesitant request – I gave them, because that was what a leader did. I nurtured their strengths and carried their weaknesses. I listened and remembered, became a guardian of memories.

They were all missing something: Sten's lost honor, Morrigan's cursed birthright, a younger Wynne's regret. Even Zevran, smooth tongued and flippant, knew of love once, and crushed its struggling heart with his own hands.

At Redcliffe I found a silver thing etched with Andraste's flame, with cracks spiralling out from the centre, carefully put back together in a painstaking way. It was vaguely familiar to me, although I could not recall the reason, and I slipped it into a pouch on a whim, that feeling one gets of expectancy and importance. At camp, the feeling found explanation, and he was crouched in front of the fire, warming his hands. There was a sudden anxious twist inside of me, some raw unfamiliar emotion as I handed him the amulet, watched his eyes widen in surprise and awe and disbelief.

He crushed me to him, heat and metal and joy. And at that moment the other warden became Alistair to me. I realized I was missing something too: stricken with an impossible longing, waiting for one smile or one word or one touch – too much and not enough.


	5. Pariah

V. Pariah

Orzammar was made of suffocating underground caverns, burnt siennas, auburns and golds. I was unaccustomed to the dimness, craved open skies and a horizon to look to. I felt the heavy weight of the stone overhead, the stone beneath me, the insistent pressing, surrounding us. The Assembly's roar countered our request for aid, the countless hours lost to waiting for our cause to be heard. We wasted our time here, acting as errand boys for squabbling leaders, each side countering the other in backstabs and intrigue. I fought in the Provings for Harrowmont, before entering the Deep Roads with the promise of his voice for us if crowned king, even as the days spiralled in the hourglass and the archdemon's advance.

This was where I would go to die, if the horde does not kill us. Even Alistair was quiet in these winding roads, respect for the echoes of the ones who died here. Oghren was the only one who did not seem affected by the experience, buoyed by ale and the thought of his Paragon wife.

--

There were many things found in the Dead Trenches. Stories lost to the surface, the horrors that lurked there, and the men driven by hunger and madness, satiated by darkspawn flesh. I thought I had seen it all, but nothing compared to the terror and torture that was inside the caverns. They feasted, yes, these monsters, yet not in a way I understood. They needed us, needed our wombs to bear their children, to keep what was long dead alive.

I cut the throat of the Broodmother so that she would no longer spawn. I was lost to a quiet rage, sank my blades into that putrid sack, until my arms were numb and it took both Alistair and Oghren to pull me off, my body almost buried inside the pile of fatty flesh and blood.

I sliced Branka's head clean off her neck, with a sweep of two daggers. I reduced her to pieces, just limbs and torso, great chunks of what used to be one of their illustrious, worshipped ancestors. I should have fed her to the darkspawn, in hindsight.


	6. Feral

VI. Feral

I lost myself in Alistair. He made me forget; he made me soft in all sorts of ways. Even our clumsy first attempt was lovely in its own way, a light that illuminated the overwhelming darkness. He was indeed all hands. All hands and legs and delicious skin.

He kept me whole, but I still dreamed.

--

I should have told them I never woke from the sloth demon's nightmare. I walked the grey halls, calling familiar names. They slept there with me: the archer, the witch, dreamers stilled in frozen reflection. The mentor, the soldier, frost tinged and encased in ice. I beat that blue surface for hours, until my hands were bloodied and I drew red constellations, but they never heard me. I fell there in the broken twilight, and saw the crows come, to feast (the archdemon roaring in vicious triumph).

They ate my eyes.

--

After Orzammar there was a new nightmare to visit, while my body was safe in the circle of Alistair's arms. I kept on returning to the Deep Trenches. Tentacles tightening around my ankles as I was dragged to the pens. There were elven women rocking in the corners, talking to themselves. The human girls wept quietly, while the dwarven ones paced, digging scuff marks into the dirt. I was taken one day by a band of escorts, hurlocks and genlocks chortling and grunting, their sounds a cacophony around me in excitement for the upcoming sacrifice. Their shadows fell over me, a steady procession, one by one and by one and I was taken, over and over and over, until I was numb and long stopped shaking. Until I felt the change.

--

Alistair shook me awake and I was still half in the Fade, half out of it. I was wild with fright and rage, struck out at the strength that held me – _they held me and took me and used me and broke me_. The bruise appeared, dark and ugly, spreading on his skin, marred that handsome face. It was all I knew how to do. Ever since Highever, I learned how to intimidate and how to kill and how to hate. He taught me how to love, but I hurt him. Even though he murmured words of understanding, that he heard the calling too every night, Grey Wardens bound by a tie no one else could understand. I was a woman and _he_ couldn't understand: I could not forget the image of Hespith's clawed hands. What they did to her. What they made her watch. What they made her do. What sort of guilt she must have drowned in.

I made a vow to the Maker, to Andraste, to all the gods I knew, elven or even the dwarven Paragons encased in their stone sleep. I will stop them from taking our women, bound by divine force and purpose – I willed it so.


	7. Mutt

VII. Mutt

Arl Eamon lived. Even though Alistair questioned my choice in sacrificing Isolde, we simply did not have enough _time. _The Landsmeet was coming, and yet another pawn fell into place. Anora.

In the Arl of Denerim's estate, I was an invisible spectre silencing those who would announce our presence. Even as they rushed us, I cut them down, soldiers too unfortunate to be in our way, guarding those they thought loyal to Ferelden. I saw the bloody chambers of ambition and greed, friend turned foe, false promises. I saw the treasure chests spill with loot, torture racks that contained limp bodies. All of Howe's perversions laid bare, his hoarding of wealth and power.

It was a nightmare come true when we met in the dungeon. I had all sorts of words for him, words like traitor and betrayer, translated into the harsh ringing sounds of redsteel against armor. I made him suffer in his last breaths, riddled him with wounds, made him taste lightning and contort his charred, tightened flesh. Morrigan put him in a crushing prison, and I stood there to watch him shudder, made sure he saw me in front of him as he lost his final breath, the sounds of the battle dying around me. I avenged the memory of my father and mother, my sister-in-law and little Oren.

I felt no regret and no semblance of mercy. I spat on his corpse.

--

Anora was in disguise when I would have rather she stood by us in earnest, to prove herself. I saw what she could be, a slithering viper, beautiful and poisonous. Like father, like daughter, she betrayed us in front of Ser Cauthrien, to save her pretty face. I tired of all the lies, even as I dealt in half truths.

_I have known so much betrayal. _

Ferelden needs a good king, someone both just and merciful. Someone who knew what it was like to be a commoner. I saw power and balance, the fist of the templars for their wards, troubled elves against werewolves of the forest and the riots of the dwarven castes. I understood all of that, and knew that I could not put Anora on the throne.

_Ferelden needs someone like you, not Loghain's daughter who is well-versed in treachery._ Alistair waved a hand, protesting that he didn't have words like I did, that his arguments always appeared less sound. That he would listen. I knew he would give in after a time, they all did. I was a bard of seductive words. I wove a careful net, to intrigue or to lure, to coerce and bend to my will.

I bound him with what should have been his strengths, what made him good and kind, noble and pure. I bound him with his sense of honor, his trained obligation and above all else, his duty.

We made love in a feather bed, with proper blankets and a fireplace that kept the air warm around us. I saw what we were for the first time in our coupling, instead of hidden in the darkness of evening and the canopy of the tent above, no longer secret rendezvous kept quiet. His gaze when he looked at me has changed, from questioning and hesitance to assurance and rebellion. I felt his distance from me grow with each joining, our desire for each other still there, but the constant, torturous reminders of the taint, my barren womb. We made love with a ferocity that thrilled and frightened me both, a savage communication with our bodies. He drove into me like he demanded an answer: why he must be king, why I asked this of him. He drove his resentment and his frustration, his love and his passion, all into me.

And I cried out under him.

And I made him king.


	8. Spawn

**VIII. Spawn****  
**  
"You ask me for all sorts of things," he raged, fire in his voice and lightning in his eyes. He was a mage's creation, a tempest swirled around him, an inferno of emotion. "You ask, no – you _demand_ this of me. You knew I didn't want to be king. You knew what this would mean for us."

I requested an audience with Ferelden's new king the eve before we march to war. Because I loved him I knew what to say to him to make him listen, and I knew the proper barbs to hurt, how to dig under his skin and make him writhe. I told him that there was no future for a royal bastard made king and a fallen noble turned Grey Warden. I told him this first, selfishly and cruelly, made sure he understood.

"You do not give me the _pleasure_ of telling you this, because I have worried since the Landsmeet and it has driven me mad." He was searching my face for some sort of response, a solicited emotion that would soothe his fragile hurt. I kept my expression distant. There was nothing left for him here. "But you don't seem to care."

"I know of my duty," I said. "And you will follow yours."

"Don't tell me of _duty_. I know of this more than anyone, more than you." He spat out that word like a curse. His face became red and distorted with his anger. I could almost see the shadow-memory of the bruise that I left there once, an omen of what we would become. "Do you think I want to find a wife? Do you think I want to bed her, to have a child with her, to have anyone else at my side other than you?"

"Then you know what you must do," I sighed. "We do not need to fool ourselves with what could be or talk of those things."

"I understand why you did what you did and I cannot avoid what it entails-"

"You will be a great king," I cut him off, broke what ties that bound us so cleanly that there was nothing left to mend. There was no need to provoke him now. I struck him in the heart and twisted the blade and I turned away to leave.

"Once, I would have gladly followed you anywhere."

_And now?_ He sounded so lost that I wanted to turn back and hold him, to tell him that I take it all back, that we could be together, the possibility of Morrigan's dark ritual. We could _live_. But I kept quiet. Yes, I was the selfish one. I wanted desperately to live, to take Alistair with me, a once fanciful suggestion. _What if we just left?_ What if we went to Orlais or disappeared into the Wilds, an ex-templar and a would-be assassin? Or unleash an Old God into the world?


	9. Stray

**IX. Stray**

I left him at the gates.

_You put the crown on my head and the throne under me and expect me to lead, but now you do not take me with you_. He paced back and forth, gloved hands opening and closing, an attempt to understand.

_I refuse to be your mabari bitch, to howl when you bid, to charge where you command._ I retorted. _Even if you are king. _

That made him cold, made him turn instead to the darkspawn. I felt those jagged edges, what was impossible to put back together.

Wynne said once: _You may be forced to make a choice... _I knew that if he so much as stumble, if I hear his cry, see him bleed, then I would drop everything and rush there, because I loved him and because he would do the same for me. I would give all of Ferelden to save his life.

It was easier to march to my end, knowing he hated me.

--

I carried all of them, their stories and their futures, fuel for my vengeance and my song. I carried them with me, those I left behind and those who stayed. This was my final performance as I was pulled into the centre of Wynne's storm, my steps sure and my voice pure. We fell the darkspawn that came together, Sten with his reunited sword, Shale and her crystals of nature and spirit. We fell ogres and emissaries, their Hurlock grunts and Genlock archers. I could feel their fear, as their end approached. Even their dim minds knew what it meant to have their essence removed, become smoke and non-existence.

When the archdemon's neck arched back, its wings struggling limply to lift too heavy a body, I knew it was time. Through my exhaustion, I pulled from my inner reserves, the last remnants of what it took to push myself forward, make muscle move and spring, clench and tighten. The sword was not my chosen weapon, but it felt sure in my hands as I threw my body into gutting the dragon, so that the Blight would end and for Ferelden to finally know peace.

It shuddered and groaned and the earth rolled underneath me. I was thrown about as its body opened and released pillars of light that illuminated the battlefield. What should not have substance gained form, entered my body in many places, a pain that burned and froze interchangeably. I shook as I hung there in the air, pierced by lances of light. The archdemon's soul spoke of eons, the ancient knowledge of its shaping, its wrath at being confined to such a useless mortal vessel. It told of its hunger, of what used to be and what was and what is to come. It was furious and ravenous and ready. It filled me and I was weighed down by it, the immensity of my final burden. What evil or benevolent power Thedas might have seen, if Morrigan was heavy with the child knowing no conscience or humanity. What years of love I might have known, as his queen or mistress, the two of us alive and thankful for the twist of fates that brought us there. I lived all those futures and none of it, blinded by possibilities and what I could have been.

There was a great release, as if pieces of me were taken by feathered creatures, towards the corners of the known earth. Tears came unbidden, choking my throat and filling my eyes. I found forgiveness there. _Oh, Alistair, in another time, another place_ - and Death welcomed me, his favoured child.

**End**


End file.
